“Oh come on, I thought you were going to be the fun Katie,” he says to me, pulling my wrist and pushing his body against me, his breath tickling my neck as he speaks. Tim* (*Names have been changed) has been drinking as long as I have, since 9 am and it is now well past midnight, almost one. “Get off of me, Tim,” I say, twisting my arm in a way that doesn’t feel good, trying to relieve myself of his grip, trying to get closer to the door. “Oh stop.”…
The next time I saw Chris, he met up with Rachel and I at 1516 (an expat bar off stephensplatz) after Rachel and I had one too many drinks. To be honest, I don’t think either of us remember getting there. I do, however, remember how amazing those potato wedges with cheese and ranch were. Or maybe I was just drunk and excited about the prospect of ranch in Europe. But I digress… We sit at a small table and talk and laugh and Chris eats some food. When it’s time to leave, Chris…
